Everything Hurts More When it's Cold
by fecundhoarygrandmother
Summary: He didn't even know rejection was in his vocabulary. [Royai]
1. Everything Hurts More When it's Cold

**Author's Note: So I've tried writing fan fictions before, this one being my third attempt. I've never dared share them with anyone (besides to my brother who could care less) thinking that they may not be good enough. I've built up whatever confidence I could and decided to finally share this one. Even though it's my third, it's the first I've taken a bit of pride in and the first I've decided to share, so technically you can consider it my first. Of course, if you decide to critique this little story of mine, critique it as if I were more experienced and be as productive as possible. -- I don't get offended easily, even if you flamers do decide to attack me.**

**Also, I could leave this story as is and refrain from possibly smiting and burning it, or I could take a chance and continue it. If I continue, I'll more than likely exceed four chapters, but stay under ten. I'll leave this decision up to you readers and what you say in the reviews. Leave as is or continue? Finally, we begin.**

**Everything Hurts More When it's Cold**

Ever whack your finger with a zipper on a cold winter morning? Ever do the same in the summer? Hurts a lot more when it's cold, huh?

It was a glorious day for our god-kissed man of a man. Normally, he wasn't a morning person-- actually, on weekends, it was more than common for him to rise out of bed around noon. Astonishing enough, this man had sprung out of his hackneyed mattress _in the morning. _If he were in bed at noon, surely he'd miss his assignation.

His torso was thusly clad in a white collar shirt while black slacks adorned his legs; shoes and thick wool jacket were quickly slipped on, and he sprayed a dash of cologne at his collar bone region. As the man passed by the pedestal in his hall, he ran his pale fingers through his raven black hair. That infamous lady-killer smirk tweaked his lips when onyx eyes locked onto a little black book that must've contained a years worth of hard-earned phone numbers. The hand in his hair dropped down and swiftly knocked the book into a nearby waste bin. He opened his front door and took a single step onto his porch out into the snowy wonderland that'd fallen upon Central in one simple night.

Now, who was this mystery man?

Why, it was none other than the Flame Alchemist himself: Colonel Roy Mustang.

The colonel resumed his walk to the sidewalk, his weight wearing the prints of the soles of his shoes into the snow blanketing the asphalt. He walked at a steady pace to his first destination: the flower shop. He greeted the female clerk with a smile and a nod. Her own greeting was short and bitter.

"No."

Roy gave the flower shop maiden a quizzical expression, arching up a thin brow and scratching his short raven hair.

"I'm sorry?"

"Last time you asked me on a date, you never called afterwards."

_Called _afterward? Why would he…. oh. OH. Right.

Women normally didn't appreciate getting ignored. Oops.

In any case, he hadn't woken up in such an ecstatic mood to simply ask _this _woman on another meaningless date. Aside from the fact that she didn't seem to be 'his type,' he'd found someone else. Her self-flattery mildly irked him, but his mood was far too great for him to throw his standard snide retort at her. Instead, as he inspected the flowers, he made somewhat of an offer.

"On the contrary-- I've decided to let you go on account that one of my ancillaries has his eyes on you. You may've heard of him… First Lieutenant Jean Havoc?"

He received no verbal response, and to avoid any predestined awkwardness, he pointed to a bundle of flowers. Their dark petals flared out brilliantly, and each bud hung on a dangerous stem plagued with thorns, He peered away from the display and smirked when he saw the light tint of pink sitting itself on her cheeks. Mr. Matchmaker lowered his finger and finally spoke, smirk seeming to be plastered to his face.

"I'll take the roses."

Mustang stood under a naked tree, its fawns having foundered in the in the autumn; both its dead leaves and weak branches became covered with layers of snow. He rocked back and forth from his heels to his toes, bouquet of roses slowly swaying with his movements. It wasn't characteristic for her to be late, and due to this fault, his nose and cheeks altered to a light red color, the cold climate finally taking its toll on him. It seemed to affect the flowers as well. Their once full buds were becoming skimpy, their petals falling and blowing away.

The colonel ceased his rocking and shifted his eyes around the area. A smile crossed his features for the umpteenth time when he saw her walking in his general direction. He strode forward to meet her halfway, but to his dismay, she bolted to attention as soon as she realized who he was.

"Sir."

"At ease, Riza. We're off duty."

Hawkeye's amber eyes narrowed at his casual greeting. "'Riza?'"  
The fact that he'd been so informal was soon shrugged off as Roy resumed speaking.

"What are you doing here?" As if he didn't know… he noticed her eyeing his nearly deceased bouquet when she began to respond.

"Last night someone slid a letter under my front door. I'm supposed to meet someone here. The writing was familiar… was it you, Colonel?"

A melodramatic silence filled the air, amorous fire flickering and lighting up the colonel's dark eyes. Rather than replying with a simple 'yes,' he swiftly extended his arm out, presenting the display of roses to her; his lieutenant's reaction wasn't quite what he expected.

She stared at Roy, normally docile cinnamon gaze widening, mouth slightly gaped open. Yet another moment of silence broadened the air… then she refused the flowers.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

At this response, his smile faded as he stared at her for a moment. Finally, the smile reappeared, but it was a meek, half-hearted one.

"I know they're in bad condition… but, see, while standing in the cold---"

"It's not that."

He could only pray he misinterpreted her statement. Onyx eyes tangoed with amber one as if he were searching for a more positive explanation. He didn't fancy her further response.

"It's against the regulations. If someone were to catch us we'd both be--"

"You think I care?"

"_I _care. I'm not going to allow you to throw away years of effort for a crush."

A crush? Was that how she took it? His eyes narrowed softly, extended arm retreating to his side.

"You've known me for years… I can take whatever you throw at me, so give it to me straightforward, Hawkeye. What do you think of me?"

As expected, she gave no immediate response. He waited, both lusting and dreading her answer. He saw her eyes avert to the ground.

"No… Riza… Please…"

Her right foot shifted back, eyes avoiding any contact with his.

"Black Hayate… He needs to be fed."

That right foot furthered its distance until it hit the ground and pivoted her around, back now turned to our broken Roy. He watched her briskly walk away, hardly noticing that the breeze left his roses completely petal-less, exposing the buds from all directions. A case of aphasia seemed to sweep over his body when he attempted to call out her name. His muscles tensed, and he soon found he couldn't budge.

Yeah…

Everything hurts more when it's cold.


	2. Chubby Cheeks

**Author's Note: First off, I'd like to thank all of you for your positive reviews. After a million and a half hours of debate, I've decided to continue the story, however, I have to admit this second chapter isn't as great as the first. Towards the middle it becomes a bit rocky, and for some reason, no matter how many times I re-do it, it still sounds off. Even this being said, I still want honest reviews so I can erase this fault of mine. The reviews will also aid me in deciding whether I've utterly killed a good story-- if I have, I /really/ want to stop while I'm ahead. Thanks a bunch. -- You guys are awesome. Well, here's chapter two. I hope you enjoy.**

**Chubby Cheeks**

It was two mornings after Mustang's unfortunate rejection. Too bad heartbreaks didn't _quite _fall under the sick category; he found himself sitting in his office like every other Monday morning rather than wading in his pool of patheticness at home.

But it was also strange. He felt every bit of grief, yet he failed to convey it through tears or insults. In fact, he showed absolutely no grief whatsoever-- he was acting rather oddly.

Now, when I say oddly, I don't mean being uncharacteristically grotesque, rude, or fidgety. All of his ancillaries could safely conclude that something was bothering him when he was found staring in a round, black hand-mirror-- much longer than usual. But, no, today he wasn't basking in his flawless complexion, dazzling eyes, or that infamous smirk of his. He was doing quite the opposite.

He raised a hand to his face and first started prodding and poking his cheeks, then catching the skin between his index finger and thumb, stretching it away from its home. His eyes observed the reflection of his action, then shifted above the mirror to his working underlings.

"Warrant Officer Falman!" Falman jolted up with a flinch at the colonel's holler.

"Sir!"

The colonel's prodding ceased, and he lowered the mirror, setting it flat on his desk. Narrow eyes stared hard at his subordinate, and he was silent. The tension between them was great, and he decided to break it when Falman seemed to grow overwhelmingly uneasy.

"What do you think of my cheeks?"

It was apparent that his reaction was confusion as his brows knitted together and a frown curved his mouth downward.

"I apologize for my incompetence, Sir, but I'm not sure what you mean."

Mustang's stone face hardened. "Did I stutter, Falman? My cheeks. What. Do. You. Think?"

"As in…?"

"Do you deem them to be large?"

"I believe that's a matter of opinion."

"But what do _you _think?"

There was great hesitation before he answered. "I think…. they're proportional to your face."

Roy heaved a mental sigh, knowing that even if he asked the question as clearly and blatant as possible, someone like Falman wouldn't give him a straight answer. He moved onto Feury, dismissing the Warrant Officer with a nod (who saluted stiffly in return and lowered back to his work).

Thus, he brutally questioned Kaine, and then attacked Breda when the Sergeant failed to give him a definite answer… but to no avail. All three had utterly avoided the question, so he turned to his last resort (no. Not Hawkeye. Obviously there'd been a bit of tension between them during the first hours of the morning).

"I think they're fat, Chief."

"And that's precisely why I didn't ask you, Havoc."

"But you were going to."

Rather than acknowledging defeat, the prideful man dismissed the officers so he could bathe in his misery alone.

"You're dismissed to the mess hall. All of you."

"But it's only nine 'o--"

"Are you _defying _my orders, Feury?"

"No Sir!" The mousy man adjusted his thick-framed glasses and grew to be a bit flustered, following everyone else out of the room. That is, everyone except Havoc, who seemed to be sure everyone was out before he shut the door, propping himself up by resting his rear on the corner of his superior's desk. Mustang ignored his presence and peered back into the resting mirror.

"Mess hall. Now."  
"What's the matter? Something bothering our all-mighty colonel?"

"Don't light that cigarette."

"Did you finally get rejected?"

"Put it out. Now."

"Aw… well a rejection is healthy every once in awhile."

"Are you _deaf?_ You heard me. Put. It. Out."

"Who was it?"

"Lieutenant! What did I just say!"

"Colonel! What did _I _just say!" His subordinate challenged him. This fact alone was aggravating; it made him feel so weak… Oddly enough, this weakness was so great that he _gave in _to his inferior officer. In a more established case, it was apparent he would most definitely not give into such a degrading situation. But he did.

"How did you know?" They both smirked.

"You were starting to doubt your face." Mustang arched up a brow at this, narrowing his eyes again.

"What's that supposed to mean? My grandmother… once she informed me of my fat cheeks. I was just curious as to whether--"

"No offense, Sir, but that's a bunch of bull crap."

A defeated gaze locked onto his lieutenant. It soon disappeared as he tried to shrug off Havoc's remark.

"Well, maybe she thought I had chubby cheeks too."

"She wouldn't dump you _just_ for a pair of fat cheeks."

"Are you saying I have more flaws?"

"It depends on who rejected you." Mustang gave him a puzzled look, motioning for him to elaborate. "Who _did _reject you, anyways?"

He'd tried to avoid that question from the beginning. He couldn't tell Jean.

"Well… maybe I do have more flaws. Such as my ego… it may be too big. Or maybe it was my hair-- what if she prefers blondes? Then again…I hadn't showered that morning. What if I stunk? Maybe I shouldn't be so generous when it comes to cologne…"

"_Roy!_"

"_What?_" They both hissed at each other. It seemed as though they were outside military walls now in spite of the stripes on their shoulders and stars on their sleeves. Roy was no longer superior Colonel Mustang, and Jean was no longer inferior Lieutenant Havoc.

"I confessed, and all she said that it was prohibited." He was given a confused expression. "…And I asked her, putting all regulations aside, what she thought of me. She didn't answer, Havoc. She didn't answer." Funny how he was seeking advice from someone who hadn't a single date in months.

"As I said before: a rejection is healthy every once in awhile. If every woman wanted you, your ego'd inflate so much that we'd have to strap you to a chair so you won't hit the ceiling fan blades."

"You don't understand."

"Well, if you were more open maybe I would."

That defeated expression plagued his face again, but this time it was stubborn. They both knew he'd give in sooner or later if Havoc's prying didn't cease. Havoc smiled a small sort of half-smile. A hand gesture was given to signify he wanted a response. Mustang picked up the hand mirror and held it in front of his face, blocking out any eye contact that might awkwardly attack him.

"Hawkeye."

Jean stared at Roy-- or, rather, the mirror blocking his face. Lower jaw hung like it'd just been detached; wide sapphire eyes remained still and locked onto the back of the mirror. They refrained from blinking, and all together, Jean had the appearance of a fish that'd just gotten slapped.

Damn lucky he put up that mirror.

His stature remained that way, dumbfounded and shocked, and Mustang heard him tried to speak, rambling about losing wagers or something of the sort. His stammering was an obvious hint that he was searching for something productive to reply with, but it didn't quite seem as though it was turning out well. Finally, it was silent, and Mustang knew Havoc had regained a more professional composure. He felt the hand mirror being lowered by Havoc's hand, but his own stiff hand was almost reluctant to do so. As a result of the lowered hand mirror, Roy's eyes lowered as well to burn a hole in the desk.

"You need to think optimistically about this. Her failure to answer could mean one of many things. Maybe, like you think, she doesn't like you, and she didn't want to hurt your feelings." The lieutenant paused to give Roy a disbelieving look, silently singling out this possibility. "Or _maybe _she thought you didn't like her back. You do have a reputation with the women around here, after all." True, but still, Roy seemed slightly dissatisfied, that thought no longer sounding appealing. However, it was relieving to get this thing off his chest though it wasn't entirely resolved.

"Thanks…. Lieutenant."

"No problem, chief." Once more they both smirked. The walls of the military surrounded them once more, sadly, but nonetheless. Mustang's smirk remained.

"Mess hall. Now." A chuckle escaped Havoc's mouth. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and snapped it in half. A weak salute was given to his now-remembered superior, and he pivoted himself around to head to the mess hall. He opened the door and stepped out, back turned to Mustang, and he spoke one last time before he left.

"I don't think they're chubby, Sir."


	3. Trying to Move On

**Author's Note: I'm sorry I haven't updated for like… God knows how many months. This chapter is short, but I promise the next will be longer—I have the next chapter written down. I just need to type it out. I'll try to keep updating in shorter periods of time, now that school's come to a break. In spite of this, I need more reviews (whether they be good or bad) in order to update again. Thanks. --**

**Trying to Move On**

"Oh, Colonel, you spoil me!"

"Please, call me Roy."  
He was given a giddy giggle as the woman on his right tightly grasped his arm. She was a brunette, one heavily loaded with make-up and perfume. They stood before a restaurant—might I add that it was a very five-star, very exalted, very expensive restaurant? I mean, not to _brag _or anything…. But he only wanted the best.

As his date set those wide emerald eyes on this place, she was ostensibly grateful, and most definitely not accustomed to being provided with such luxuries; she practically dislocated his shoulder dragging him to the entrance.

Now, what was with the sudden altering of moods? As we began this escapade of woe, the colonel was utterly ecstatic, then a tad fearful. He'd been in despair for an entire day, then in complete disarray the next. Somewhat of a sense of relief had swept him from these unfathomable emotions at last, and all of these stages were only natural in the process of rejection, however, could his affection for his lieutenant truly be described as _love_ if he so quickly got over her? Never once had he even thought of uttering such an honest, forbidden word in a woman's ear. Any woman's ear. Why did he deem that Hawkeye would be any different? Because they'd worked together for years, and those years had deteriorated the wall separating them, the wall that distinguished their professions from their personal lives. That wall had become so thin and so short that the only word left to define it was a line. Had he tried to cross it too soon? Had he any decent reason to cross it at all? Had that wall only thinned because he _wanted _it to?

Doubt. He caught himself in another blur of an emotion-driven stage.

Before he was able to put in a word of his own, he found himself sitting at a two-person table with his new date sitting across from him. The female interlocutor led their 'conversation' away, sleazily venting over her past relationships in the most vulgar way he imagined was possible.

"My first boyfriend was a grease monkey—I'm surprised he even changed his underwear without me telling him to. My fifth and seventh were the same way, but my ninth was a gentleman… but he cheated on me. My sixth… well, he," She interrupted herself for a gawky laugh, swinging her palm in one direction about twice, "He swung the other direction, if you know what I'm saying, and…"

He seemed to drown out her words at that point, face paling as if he'd realized he just made a horrifying mistake. Her true colors burst out of that already painfully bright exterior as a cooped- up bird would a cage after a month of solitary confinement. Apparently these colors were entirely too bright for our poor Mustang to handle, so he pulled her plug out around her fifteenth mate (he didn't even know if he went through so many woman in three months).

"I can fully assure you, I'll be different. You have my word."  
"That's what numbers two, six, and ten said."

"You can trust me, Sleaze-a--- I mean Riza!" And thus with a hiss, "Oh, _damnit."_

The whole restaurant seemed to grow deafly silent, Roy's eyes now following the pattern of the checkered tablecloth. He could feel her eyes driving into his skull. He'd never made such an insolent mistake in his life, for he believed he was too classy and smooth to say something… to say something so unbelievably stupid. Of course, he couldn't simply shrug off that he'd insulted her _and _used an incorrect name; his arms extended to gently grasp her hands in his while eyes traveled up to her, as if to hypnotize. He spoke with utter sincerity.

"I apologize… Truly, I do. Not that this explanation is any reliable excuse, but you reminded me of my last relationship with a woman. Your appearance, that is; she was beautiful, as are you, but we went our separate ways, I'm afraid I haven't quite gotten over it. I could understand if you hate me, just as she does, Lisa." Her true name was emphasized as to signify that he did, in fact, know her name.

He was forced to lock up a smirk as he seemed to be successfully pulling off this façade of sincerity. The silence between them, he had to assume was a positive sign. His date's emotionless face soon smiled, but he was very aware that this smile conveyed the exact opposite of joy as the pressure of her nails started to puncture his skin. The colonel attempted to withdraw his hands but in doing so only made it worse by having those claws drag across his flesh. A wince was given as dark eyes shifted from the pair of hands, back to the violent woman.

"_My name is Mary._"


End file.
